


a church of their own making

by softestpunk



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: First Time, IDK this is like a five times fic only there are only three times, M/M, Mid-Canon, Mild Smut, Non-Explicit Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:34:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27839944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softestpunk/pseuds/softestpunk
Summary: The first time, they’re both flushed with the warmth of the fire and bellies full of mead Tryggr has been gifted, Erke cajoling and encouraging Stowe to drink until the torches turn into dancing fireflies and the rowboat of the world rocks on a quiet river under him.Every story has a beginning; this is how Erke and Stowe's begins.
Relationships: Erke Bodilsson/Stowe
Comments: 16
Kudos: 111





	a church of their own making

The first time, they’re both flushed with the warmth of the fire and bellies full of mead Tryggr has been gifted, Erke cajoling and encouraging Stowe to drink until the torches turn into dancing fireflies and the rowboat of the world rocks on a quiet river under him.

Erke smells of smoke and home and harsh lye soap, always so clean and neat and never like sweat and dirt, never like the rest of the filthy beautiful city Stowe loves with his whole heart.

His honeyed mouth makes Stowe’s blood itch, molten want running down his throat, and the rowboat stops rocking and all is still for a moment except for the waterfall rush in Stowe’s ears and the cold fingers of panic closing around his belly and squeezing tight.

He runs, and weeps, cool stones scraping his forehead as his heart pours down his cheeks and soaks into his clothes.

Erke does not follow, and he thinks later that perhaps that is for the best.

The second time, they’re fighting. Blood hot, spitting like tomcats, growling and snarling, faces so close that they could breathe each other’s souls in.

A heartbeat pause and Stowe remembers that this is Erke, his very best friend, a man he’d trust with anything, anything at all, and this is a stupid argument and he doesn’t want to be having it anymore.

He cannot admit to moving first yet, not _yet_ , but he knows in his God-loved sinner’s heart that he does move first, swallowing down Erke’s gasp of surprise to keep it in his chest always.

The stone of the pillar behind him is a feather bed when Erke pushes them against it, cradling his skull to save cracking it open, axe-rough calluses silken against the sensitive shell of Stowe’s ear.

The sound of footsteps tears Erke away from him and it is like losing a limb, for a moment, the shock of it a wound to the heart that aches for days with what-might-have-been. Erke busies himself far away from Stowe’s duties, and Stowe thinks, once again, that this is perhaps for the best.

The third time, Lunden is burning. All around them the heat of the fires glows, Stowe’s blood still hot from the fight and the escape and the storm of disaster the last few days have brought.

He watches his home crumble into smouldering ruins and wonders if it would be giving himself too much credit for righteousness to think he understands now why Lot’s wife looked back.

Callused fingers slip into his for the first time, but the feeling is familiar. Remembered from a dream, perhaps.

It must have been a beautiful dream.

The rowing-boat world steadies under his feet as Erke guides him through the streets behind the closed doors of the governor’s villa, and then roars into a straw-scented storm as Erke’s bed creaks in protest under him.

Rabbit-hopping heartbeats fill Stowe’s ears as Erke’s mouth crashes shipwrecked into his, the boat shattering under them. This changes everything but everything has already changed and it’s the first thing that hasn’t made him feel sick since Tryggr died and Erke’s mouth inexplicably tastes of honey again, and perhaps that’s just how it tastes, and Stowe wants to know for sure, wants to test the theory by doing this every day.

Sighs and gasps and delicious thunder-rolling moans pass between them as weapons and armour and clothing falls aside. There is no need for armour here, in this safest place either of them have been, each other's arms.

Warm white-water pleasure rushes deep in Stowe’s belly at Erke’s lamb-gentle touch, whispered promises he barely dares to believe tickling the hairs on the back of his neck as they rock together, unhurried, sheltering from the storm still raging across the world but absent here, in this sanctuary of theirs, a church of their own making, steepled blankets over their bodies hinting that one day this could be a cathedral, this could be their great work.

Love, nothing more, nothing less, the simplest and perhaps most powerful thing in the world, the greatest gift God has given his children, even the pagan ones. A gift the two of them share, and Stowe knows, as Erke sighs against him, the evidence of love shared spilling onto his belly, that there is no shame in it.

The comfort of sleep takes him before he can tell Erke any of this, but they have tomorrow. They have all of their tomorrows, for the rest of their days.


End file.
